Detained Chapter 12 --Detonation Part 1
First off, let me apologize for the delay and the lack of response to comments...I have just been really busy and exhausted. But...I come bearing an older chapter...but one with actual Marcus/Katie interaction in it! (SPOILER ALERT). Hopefully it will be new for some of you. I am writing and will be catching up, but hopefully somebody will enjoy the repost of this. :)
Well, that was certainly an unpleasant use for a butter churn.
For a moment, Katie thought she’d entered the London Torture Museum instead of the club where they were celebrating Alicia’s 20th birthday. An Iron Maiden was proudly displayed in the balcony. Dunking stools were lined up at the bar. Something that looked suspiciously like a rack hung and swayed over the dancers.
No wonder the name of the club was Repent.
Ang, Fred and George were also staring, open-mouthed, Katie noted. She figured that Ang would be the first to break the silence. Katie could see the tirade about warped attitudes about Muggles, jaded pretentious brats, and non-ergodynamic seating forming in her friend’s brain.
She was wrong though. Fred, who had wandered closer to inspect a display of dental drills and surgical implements, turned around and grinned at them. “Dad would love this place,” he called out to George.
“Guys!” A dark-haired whirlwind dashed into their midst. Alicia pulled both Katie and Ang into a bone-crushing hug. Katie winced. For such a small girl, Ali had quite the grip. “You came!”
Once they could breathe, they all wished Alicia a happy birthday. Katie tugged nervously on the hem of her robes. They were a little shorter than she would like, but a nice muted brown. Rather than try to find robes revealing enough to meet Ali’s approval, and demure enough not to make Ang shake her head, Katie went for camouflage in the hopes that neither would look too closely. She’d also made sure they were loose enough so that, if necessary, she could run away.
“Greetings all,” Lee Jordan called out, strolling over. “Hey, Bell,” he grinned, giving her a once-over. “You have legs. Who knew?” he asked cheekily.
“Yes, I do,” Katie agreed, blithely. “I’m quite the envy of all my pals down at the primordial ooze.”
“You do look pretty tonight, Katydid,” Ali chirped, smiling at her.
“Katie always looks lovely,” Ang interjected sharply. “She just doesn’t wear robes with slits up to her nostrils, and down to her kneecaps.” A brief silence fell. Katie assumed that the rest of them, like herself, were trying to picture the robes that Ang described. Katie came up with something that looked like an origami porcupine and gave up.
“Hmm,” Ali mused, aloud. “Would you mind if I used your idea, Ang? I need some new Fall designs for the boutique. I could pair it with the thigh-high boots that have chain-links arranged in sexually-suggestive patterns. You know, the ones that you came up with when we had lunch last week.”
“Sounds a little too subtle,” Ang smirked back. “I mean, for you.”
“Actually, I designed my new collection with you in mind,” Alicia replied sweetly. “Chainmail and wimples.” Ang’s eyes narrowed.
“Alcohol and presents!” Katie inserted quickly.
“Yeah, come on, you two,” Fred agreed. “Besides I want to see if that weird cage is big enough to lock a Slytherin in.”
~*~
For a club modeled after a dungeon, it was surprisingly difficult to find a dark and quiet corner. Katie had happily spent a few minutes laughing at the nose-hair trimmer and electric can opener that the club decorator had apparently mistaken for torture devices. After an hour though, Katie was casting longing looks at the sarcophagus in the corner. She’d promised Ali that she’d stay for at least a few hours. She hadn’t said where in the club, exactly. If only she’d brought a book.
The place was packed. Well, except for the area around Ang and Fred, of course. Their exuberant dancing, combined with the fact that spikes and blades festooned the walls made everyone give them a respectful distance. Maybe Katie should go sit cross legged in that area. With her center of gravity that low, it would be hard for even the combined destructive power of Fred and Angelina to thrust her into something hard enough to cause impalement.
Lee Jordan was making his way across the floor to her again, Katie saw. He and George seemed to have some sort of system worked out. Every fifteen minutes, Lee came by to dance with her. Every twenty minutes, George brought her a drink. Depending on how you looked at it, it was condescending or lovely. It was kind of fun having minions though. Katie kept having to fight the urge to demand that one of them juggle.
“Come on, Katie,” Lee said, firmly. “Let’s dance.”
“No, I’m alright, you go ahead,” Katie assured him.
“Katie…”
“Lee, you’ve danced with me like four times. All the other little wallflowers are getting jealous.”
“I want to dance with you. I never see you! I can chat up the gigglers any night.”
“Hmm,” Katie mused, staring over his shoulder. “I didn’t know this club was ‘robes optional’.” Lee’s head whipped around. Katie snickered.
“Idle curiosity,” he protested, with an over-exaggerated hurt look. “But, c’mon. You shouldn’t be standing here by yourself.”
“Lee, I know you always try to look after me but I’m standing in a crowded club! It’s not like I’m going anywhere. What could happen?”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, shrugging. “Do you need a drink?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to put George out of a job,” Katie said wryly. “You could do me a favor though.”
“Name it.”
“Ask a girl that has a chair to dance. I really want to sit down,” Katie pleaded.
He grinned at her, grabbing her arm and towing her through the crowd. A very pretty redhead was just thrilled to dance with him, the girl said breathlessly. She surrendered her stool to Katie without a whimper. Sucker.
Katie perched on her stool and surveyed the dancers. Ang and Fred were maintaining their blast radius. Ali was dancing with a tall, dark-haired guy who looked familiar. Oliver was here, too, with a striking blonde wrapped around him. Young wizardry was out in full force tonight. Look at all the pretty people. Whee.
“And what are you up to?” A tall, lanky guy was grinning down at her. Katie looked at the ale in her hand, and out at the people dancing. Master of the obvious, this one.
“I’m wailing for my demon lover,” Katie replied, sweetly. Confusion flooded his face. He quickly knocked back the rest of his drink.
“Ah, righ’. I need a refill. If you’ll excuse me…” He pushed his way towards the bar. Katie snickered.
The music was boring itself into her skull, and the heat was oppressive. Was it wrong that she had much more fun being yelled at and knocked off her broom? Only the fact that it was Ali’s birthday kept her from ducking out early and meeting Marcus at the Disconsolate Grouse, as he’d requested, well, ordered her to do. Imperious prat.
She would have gone, though. If for no other reason, because the Falcons had done a recent tour of the Continent, and Marcus had been thrown out of at least half the games for throwing people off their brooms, gouging, and in one memorable instance ‘singing in an unsportsmanlike manner’. That sounded like a story worth hearing. Life in the big leagues, she thought ruefully.
“Dance with me,” a voice said behind her, in a husky brogue. Katie spun around to see Oliver Wood. He took her stunned expression for rejection apparently, because he grabbed her arm and looked at her beseechingly. “I’ll give you a galleon.”
“What are you talking about, Oliver?” Katie laughed.
“Just dance with me, please,” he wheedled. “I want to hold an intelligent conversation.” Katie bit back her reply. She liked Oliver, she really did, but he once started a Potions essay with the words ‘Cinnespice is used in Dreamless Draughts, poison antidotes and by my mother when she makes teacakes. The fancy ones, like for company.’
“About?” Katie asked, faintly.
“Well…” he paused. “Quidditch, I suppose.” What a shock.
“OK…Puddlemere vs. the Harpies? Chasers vs. Keepers? How aerodynamic is your hair?”
“Anything is fine,” Oliver assured her. “No one else will talk Quidditch with me,” he said, forlornly, as they moved onto the dance floor. Katie stopped, staring at him in amazement. She quickly surveyed the perimeter. Yes, just as she’d expected, loads of witches and a few wizards gazing raptly at Oliver. After all, he was the boy that had all the Ravenclaws protesting that they found optimizing Quaffle balance an interesting intellectual conundrum.
“I think there are plenty of witches here who would just be ever so delighted to talk Quidditch with you, Wood,” she snickered.
“No,” he said somberly, shaking his head. “They act like they’re talking Quidditch, but that’s not really what they’re talking about.”
“No?”
“No. The first giveaway is the way they say broomstick. Dead lascivious. Then somehow they all call their, er, nether regions, the pitch. They must learn it at the broom bunny academy. It drives me mad too, because it doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t it be ‘the hoop’? But then the other part wouldn’t be broomstick, I guess, but Quaffle. It makes no bloody sense for it to be the pitch, though. First off, I don’t go jamming my broomstick into it like it’s a pogo stick. Second of all, the pitch is about a million times bigger than my broomstick, which makes it not so much inaccurate as bleeding terrifying.” Oliver voice had been rising, drawing even more glances, as he gesticulated wildly. His cheeks had turned a lovely light pink.
“So, it’s not the eroticism but the inaccuracy that gets to you?” Katie asked laughing. “Let me try. Hmm…How about ‘Why don’t you come over to my pitch? I’d really love to see you working my hoops. I’d be more than happy to let my snitch loose as well. Make sure you bring your lovely self and your mighty steed…of stick.’ Oh! Then they could purr ‘Mr. Wood.’”
“Katie!” Oliver was turning a deeper rose color now...
“Bludgers would clearly mean breasts, and we’ve already discussed the snitch…I think we’ll have to go with quaffle for penis, although it does conjure up unpleasantly…doughy images.”
“Katie!” Moving towards fuschia…
“Broomstick and snitch is a little more abstract but I think it works…Bat and bludger lacks couth. Besides, we’ve already iconized bludger.”
“I didn’t understand half of that but what I did understand was appalling,” Oliver told her firmly. “However, it’s not just what they say, though. They’re grabby.”
“Grabby?” Katie laughed.
“Yes! In case I dinna understand that when they say ‘broomstick’ or ‘score’ or ‘Porskoff ploy’, they really mean ‘shag me rotten’, they gesture, er, vehemently.” Katie continued to snicker. “It’s not funny, Bell! The last one was so bad I had to execute a ‘Starfish and Stick’ to get away from her. Quit laughing. It was terrifying.”
“Come now, Oliver. Remember the words of the poets: ‘Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such.’”
“Can we talk about Quidditch now?” he asked, plaintively.
“Weren’t we?” Katie asked, innocently.
“Be serious,” he pleaded. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve heard rumours that you’re consorting with evil companions.”
Katie froze. He knew? Did everyone know? Was Marcus running his mouth? He wouldn’t…Well, there wasn’t anything to run his mouth about really. Then reality reasserted itself. Why would Marcus brag about her? She really needed to get over herself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Katie replied curtly.
“You tried out for the Harpies?” Oliver said, smiling tentatively. Oh. “Competitors of the One True Quidditch Team, Puddlemere United?” The way Oliver said it, you could hear the capitals.
“Yeah,” Katie shrugged. “I didn’t do very well, but I wasn’t expecting much.” She forced a bright smile on her face. “So tell me about that game with Ballycastle! How did Gimlinson get his head wedged in that hoop?”
“He flew into it, head-first, very fast,” Oliver replied blankly. “I heard you did well at the try-outs. You got an offer?”
“Oh, just with their fourth-tier team,” Katie said. “So, the hoops are spelled to be magic-resistant. How did they get him out?”
“Puffapod oil and pushing really hard,” Oliver replied, briskly. “Fourth-tier is quite an accomplishment, Katie. You should be proud. Think of all the people who never get an invite.” Yeah, says Oliver Wood, mainstay of the Reserves his first year out of Hogwarts, Katie thought sourly.
“Yeah, I was pleased,” Katie lied. Same old Oliver. Nothing could divert him short of a wand up his nose.
“I put in a good word for you, you know,” he said, grinning.
“What?”
“One of the Harpies’ assistant coaches called to ask me about you, when he saw that you played under me at Hogwarts. He said you flew really well, and that he and the other assistant were impressed. Did Angelina practice with you?”
“Yeah,” Katie said, casually. Twice, she amended silently. The assistant coaches liked her? That was good news. She’d owl Marcus tonight. Given his allergy to Oliver, maybe she should say that she heard it from Ang.
“So, I told him that you were hard-working, easy to get along with, and loyal,” he informed her.
“Whoo! I’m a Hufflepuff...or a dachshund.”
“Those are important things to be in pro Quidditch,” he told her seriously. “You need to be a team player, and you are. You never…well, you complained less than the others at any rate.”
“Well, you were a very fine Captain,” she told him seriously. He smiled. “Not until tonight did I realize you were such a lyrical storyteller, however.”
“Shut it, Bell.”
“No, really. I think you should sub in for Lee on WWN’s late night Quidditch report. ‘In the Bigonville/Vrasta game tonight, Rousseau caught the snitch by flying very fast. Here at home, Falmouth beat the Cannons by scoring more goals than their opponents.’”
“…and because Marcus Flint cheated, no doubt,” Oliver said, sourly. Marcus never bothered cheating against teams that the Falcons could beat easily. He saved it up for opponents like Puddlemere. Katie decided not to share.
“So…how does it feel to be leading the league in save percentage?”
“Not bad,” Oliver said, grinning.
They talked Quidditch for a while. Listening to Oliver relive games, Katie could now understand why the Gryffindor plays had been so conservative when Oliver was Captain. As a Keeper, the closer the action was to his hoops, the more important it was. A nice sidehand toss from a Chaser close in to the hoops held more interest than a Poynter swerve, mid-pitch. That focus helped make him a great Keeper, Katie realized. As an overall strategist, not so much.
Still, it was kind of fun talking to Oliver. She was enjoying challenging his comments in a way she wouldn’t have at Hogwarts. Learning how one of the best Keepers in the league thought could only benefit a Chaser as well. Besides, she might as well keep dancing. Someone had taken her chair.
“Would you like to come to the next set of Puddlemere tryouts?” Oliver asked casually. Katie froze for a second, before resuming her mechanical side-to-side shuffling.
“What?”
“I could get you an invite. We’re really not scouting Chasers heavily right now, but word will get out to the other teams.”
Another team showing interest might be helpful, Katie thought, excitedly. Marcus was always going on about sweep and buzz.
“Might force the Harpies to take a closer look,” Oliver continued.
It might do that, maybe getting her a step closer to the Reserves. Maybe their hard work would pay off.
Thanks to Oliver.
“That’s really nice of you, Oliver,” Katie heard herself saying, “but I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, a little puzzled.
“Yeah,” she said, weakly. “I just…I just really need to do this on my own.” She’d think about this later, she promised herself.
“Well, if you change your mind…” Oliver was looking at her very carefully.
“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling weakly. “Maybe we should go find the others. I’m sure Ali’s dying to open her presents, and we want to be close enough to see but not too close when she opens her gifts from the twins.” He nodded.
Katie walked beside him, toward the booths where the others were gathering, trying to sort out her swirling emotions. Fear was the only one she recognized.
~*~
Oliver had gotten Alicia earrings.
So had Reginald Bradley, Daniella Tourneau, and a few people Katie didn’t recognize. Ang had gotten her personal alarm charms, a stunning-spelled cloak, and some of the new biting locks from Magisecure. And earrings.
The twins, Katie was certain, had not gotten Ali earrings. However, no one got to see what they did get her, thanks to the actions of an unusually perspicacious bouncer who recognized the twins and insisted Ali wait until leaving his club to open those gifts.
“I got her earrings, too,” Desiderata Holcomb whispered to Katie. “How many earrings can one witch need?”
“It’s OK,” Katie assured her, blithely. “I got her another set of ears.” Desiderata laughed nervously.
It was a bit anticlimactic when Ali opened up Katie’s actual presents-a subscription to the Enchanted Chocolates of the Month club, and a book entitled ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do: A Collection of Quotations from Outspoken and Outrageous Witches Throughout History.’ Katie fully expected some quotes from Alicia to make it into the next edition.
Ali gave her a big hug and wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, before scampering back to her seat. Katie checked the time. No one would miss her if she left now. She could see if Marcus was home. Of course, this would also mean seeing if Marcus wasn’t home. Kind of like that ‘Ineffable Cauldron’ principle that Snape talked about in Advanced Potions: Until you took the lid off, collapsing the potential potion states, the potion could be perfect, flawed or off shagging some tart from a precision flying squad. Katie thought she’d have another drink.
“You look much better, today,” Angelina slid across the banquette to sit next to her.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Katie sassed. “I have legs.” Ang rolled her eyes.
“No, better than last week, after the Harpies tryouts. I was worried about you.”
“Was that what the tea, and the blankets and all the shouting was about?” Katie asked, sweetly. Ang elbowed her in the ribs.
Ang worried more actively than anyone Katie had ever met. If Ang had lost a lover in the Giant Uprising of 1863, she would be ripping up his clothes to make bandages for the others who were injured before the body was cold. If Ang saw tearstains on a friends cheeks when she dropped by their fireplace, she damn well came over and aggressively comforted. Well, after pounding on the door, flying over the roof and breaking in through said tearstained friends balcony. Katie had returned home from her dinner with Marcus, planning to stay in bed until she summoned enough strength to self-obliviate or she turned into someone else. A few minutes with Ang, and Katie was drawing up a list of things she needed for mediwizardry school. A few more minutes with Ang, and death was starting to hold a quiet attraction.
“Did everything look better in the morning?” Ang persisted.
It had actually. At 10:30 Ang had left, stressing that Katie needed to focus on the future. Katie hadn’t. She’d retreated into the past, searching for a Katie who wouldn’t care much that she’d never have a Quidditch career, and even less that she’d never had Marcus at all. It was an heartbreakingly small window in which to work. By 11:00, even those memories had become too painful. Through them, she’d managed to form a plan somehow though: She had been a granddaughter, hanging firmly onto her grandfather’s hand through countless forays into the Muggle world, shyly relishing in his delight at the magic she could show him, loved. She would be a mediwitch, trained at the foremost academy of mediwizardry, respected. That should be enough for anyone to rebuild a present around. She would be OK. She had stopped crying then, and sat curled, shaking, in the old tatty recliner.
At 12:15, there was a fierce rapping at the window. Marcus’ behemoth of an owl was scowling in at her, a seventeen page diatribe clutched in its talons. Marcus must have been writing it since she’d left him; it was half manifesto on how to resurrect her Quidditch career, half snarling accusations. The quill had ripped through the parchment in several places, making parts of it impossible to read. The overall meaning was clear, though. They would continue to practice every day, he had insisted. They would be finishing what they had started. This would not be over. The tears had re-started, the pain had come flooding back, and, with it, incredible relief.
Ang was right. It had all seemed much better in the morning.
“Yeah, it did,” Katie smiled at her.
“Good. I’m so glad that you’re OK.,” Ang replied, pulling Katie into a warm hug. Ang tensed after a second, as a thought seemed to strike her. “Where’s Ali?” she asked, scanning the club. Katie had to hide a smile.
“Maybe she’s in the catacombs,” Lee replied, yawning.
“Excuse me?” Ang and Katie asked together.
“The catacombs,” Lee repeated. “A little personal-use spelled dungeon they have in this club. For a galleon, you and a friend can be alone. Cheaper than a room at the Leaky, and far more atmospheric.”
“Atmospheric as in roses and candlelight?” Ang asked, incredulously.
“More as in whips and chains,” Lee corrected.
“Why would there be whips in the catacombs?” Katie mused. Everyone stared at her, so she hurriedly explained. “I mean, they’re graveyards right? So why would you need whips? Flogging the dead seems unproductive. And tiring… I suppose it would save time and effort if you were going to flog someone to death. They’d already be at their gravesite when they…er, expired. Though it’s pretty gauche of them to make someone pay a cover charge for their own untimely demise. Plus it cuts down on repeat business…” There was a pause. “Why are you all staring at me like that?” Katie asked. “It’s wasn’t my business plan.”
Angelina tossed back the remainder of her electric green cocktail in one gulp. “Come on, Fred,” she said, standing and stretching. “Let’s go check it out.”
“What?” Fred asked, disbelieving.
“The catacombs. The drink here is frankly piss, and we’ve danced for hours. No power on earth could stop Ali from making a total scandal of herself at this point. Besides,” she said grinning, pulling Fred to his feet, “I want to spend some time with my man.”
“Abandoning your role as Katie’s chastity belt, then?” George asked sourly.
“There’s a lovely image,” Lee grinned, winking at Katie.
“Oh, I have faith in Katie,” Ang asserted. “I know that the rest of her evening will be spent coming up with cost-benefit ratio analyses for torture chambers, or writing instruction manuals on how to easily make instruments of pain out of an old swingset…That should scare off those who aren’t the right sort. Right, Katydid?” Ang asked, winking.
Marcus doesn’t scare.
Katie flushed at the thought, and nodded, smiling.
“We should be going,” Fred chimed in. “My woman craves my harsh discipline and uncontrollable lusts.”
“I have no idea where you got the idea that I would be the one all bound and helpless, Weasley,” Ang commented blithely as she strode away. “Come along.”
Fred stood, stunned, for a second before shrugging, a wide grin spreading across his face as he followed Ang through the crowd.
“Someone say something, quick,” George pleaded. “Let’s not dwell.”
“Again, we’re confronted with a logistical problem,” Katie mused. “Where in a crypt will you tie someone up?” Lee snickered as she continued. “Maybe that’s why there are all those little statues of angels and infants in cemetaries--They’re like little tiny hitching posts. Of course, it would have to be BYOR-Bring your own rope. Unless you used the aforementioned incongruous crypt-whips for that purpose….”
“Drink,” George said, words muffled by the table that he was slumped over. “I need strong drink.”
Lee snorted in disgust, and headed over to the bar. Katie grinned as Lee wended his way through the crowds by a route that looked completely random until you noticed he managed to casually brush against the most beautiful women in the club, and enter at least the peripheral vision of all the others. Katie was going to point this out to George when she noted his head was still on the table.
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re actually not that drunk.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
Katie snickered and went back to watching the dancers. It was funny, really. All that time and money and effort expended on making cheekbones look a little bit higher, or legs longer. Time spent rehearsing in order to pretend they were casually clever, while in fact the three lines that they had come up with represented the better part of three months intellectual effort. For what? To have their knickers peeled off by some bloke who might know either their favorite Quidditch team or the last book they read but not both? Vague, that is what it was. Making themselves sexually appealing and intellectually inoffensive to as many men as possible. Being a blurred version of some guy’s dark princess and slinking into bed with him while it was still a possibility that he was the shining knight.
Whatever the thing between Marcus and her was, at least it wasn’t about demographics.
Not that she knew really what it was about. Or what he wanted it to be about. Or for that matter, what she wanted it to be about. Apparently, she didn’t know much.
At the very least, she was sure that she was his only Quidditch pupil/sparring partner/irritant. For one thing, there just wasn’t enough time left over after all their sessions. For another, if he yelled at someone else like he yelled at her, he’d have laryngitis.
It probably meant that he cared about her, at least a little.
Or maybe not.
No, it did, she told herself. He spent a huge amount of time with her. They didn’t always talk about Quidditch. He really had wanted her to make the Harpies. Sometimes he laughed at her jokes and sometimes he got really angry at them. He paid attention.
He couldn’t have an ulterior motive. She didn’t have any money or power. The only thing she had was a broomstick and some friends. Katie supposed that it was possible that he was helping her in order to get in the good graces of one of her friends, but there was no reason for Marcus to care what any of her friends thought. Marcus didn’t care what anyone thought. There wasn’t anything he could gain, as far as Katie could see, by being nic-, well, by spending time with her.
It must be her voluptuous beauty then, a voice in her head whispered snidely. Clearly, the man who could have any witch he desired wanted her, and chose to go about this by spending the entire summer with her and never touching her.
Only because she told him not too, Katie told herself firmly. That was why.
Oh, he was just being obedient, the voice sneered. It was all part of Marcus’ master plan to have little Katie Bell. In addition to his other plan of not being able to come up with a single nice thing to say to her when she had dribbled her emotions all over his shirtfront. It seems so obvious now, the voice continued snidely.
She wasn’t going to do this. Marcus did care about her. He did. It might not be in a romantic way, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
Liar.
They were friends, Katie thought fiercely. If it was never anything more than that, it would be OK. She’d thought it was over before, and he hadn’t let it be. He owled her everyday. She was allowed to hope.
You owl him back everyday, the voice chided, only sometimes you put it off for a bit, don’t you? Making sure he’s paying attention by playing a bit hard-to-get?
Katie wondered how the developmental spellcrafting for magilobotomies was coming along. There were parts of her brain that she would really like to shut up.
She wasn’t going to think about it any more. Katie hadn’t seen her friends in ages. She should be enjoying this time with them.
Ali was on the dance floor, the sway of her hips apparently hypnotizing her partner, the Seeker for Pride of Portree. It was official, Katie decided, watching Ali’s liquid movements. The girl did not have a spine.
Katie glanced over at George. If he was staring wistfully at Ali, Katie would have to distract him. Maybe dance with him or enchant his boxer shorts to burst into flame.
He wasn’t brooding. He was staring at Katie, with a peculiar expression on his face. Furrowed brow, determined set to his jaw. He looked a little nauseous.
Blast.
”You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” Katie asked, pained.
He looked stunned for half a second, but recovered quickly. After a brief transition period of looking like a stuffed frog, he grinned at her. Katie relaxed.
“Oh, that’s very nice, Bell. Thank you very much. Think a bit much of yourself, then?” he grinned at her, tips of his ears turning red.
“Sorry…It’s just this look you get, like you’re steeling yourself for a particularly unpleasant task.” She elbowed him.
“It’s not unpleasant,” George protested. “Well, not extremely so at any rate..”
“Prat.”
“I’m serious. For only a few gallons, I would even consider sticking my hand down your pants.”
“Oh, yes. I can just hear you whispering in my ear: ‘Oh, Katie…you’re so very…kind of tall, and such lovely…hold on, it’s dark in here,…blonde hair? The way your sexuality isn’t overt…or actually even discernable makes me shiver.’”
“There’s nothing wrong with not being a slag,” George muttered, with a dark look over at Ali and her companion. Ah yes, what was always behind George’s half-hearted, intermittent advances. Katie, it’s so wonderful how you’re Alicia’s complete opposite.
“Ali’s not a slag,” Katie replied firmly.
“Loyalty becomes you, Bell,” George muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Think of it this way,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If she was a slag, she’d sleep with you, wouldn’t she?”
“With Lockhart in St. Mungo’s dancing with the Mooncalves, you should take over his career as inspirational speaker,” George said sourly.
“Good idea,” Katie smirked. “I’ll begin right now. Weasley, you pathetic loser…”
“I once walked in on the man licking his own reflection,” George mused, idly. “That was still more inspiring than you.”
“Your brother is in the catacombs right now with a beautiful witch…”
“Being made to bark like a crup,” George returned sourly.
“Lee’s tongue has been in other people’s mouths more than his own this evening.”
“Oliver has hidden under a table twice this evening to avoid sexually aggressive witches. Why don’t you go explain to him what a loser he is? Thousands would agree.”
“You are a successful businessman. You’re a good Quidditch player. There’s really no excuse for you to be such a eunuch,” Katie returned, blithely.
“You’re sitting here with me,” George retorted. “I’ve kissed someone since I last kissed you. Bet you can’t say the same.”
Standing in a steamy shower room, deluded enough to try to hear him breathe over the rushing water. Warm breath against her spine as she fought to stay standing on the pitch. Pushed up against the wall at Hogwarts, despairing and cold, yet still feeling her body respond to him. Sprawled out on her bed, his body heavy above hers as she shivered.
Had George kissed her after that? She couldn’t even remember.
“You’re still going to the wedding with me, right?” George asked. “Because while the rest of our worthless siblings will be off snogging their dates, Charlie and I will need your help keeping a) Mom from portkeying Fleur to Elba, b) Ginny from getting in fistfights with any of the other bridesmaids and c) Dad from doing unintentional yet irreparable harm to anyone with his new Muggle lawnmower. Bill is counting on us.”
“I’ll be there. Harry will too though, which means You-Know-Who will probably apparate into the boulliabaise.”
“True,” George snorted. “Maybe we should have invited Percy.”
“Don’t you have girls to snog?”
“Fine, I’m leaving,” George muttered. “As you’re supposed to be so clever, what should I say to make a witch think I’m sophisticated, clever and dead sexy?”
“How about ‘knock knock’?”
“Oh, shut it, Bell.”
~*~
Well, that was certainly an unpleasant use for a butter churn.
For a moment, Katie thought she’d entered the London Torture Museum instead of the club where they were celebrating Alicia’s 20th birthday. An Iron Maiden was proudly displayed in the balcony. Dunking stools were lined up at the bar. Something that looked suspiciously like a rack hung and swayed over the dancers.
No wonder the name of the club was Repent.
Ang, Fred and George were also staring, open-mouthed, Katie noted. She figured that Ang would be the first to break the silence. Katie could see the tirade about warped attitudes about Muggles, jaded pretentious brats, and non-ergodynamic seating forming in her friend’s brain.
She was wrong though. Fred, who had wandered closer to inspect a display of dental drills and surgical implements, turned around and grinned at them. “Dad would love this place,” he called out to George.
“Guys!” A dark-haired whirlwind dashed into their midst. Alicia pulled both Katie and Ang into a bone-crushing hug. Katie winced. For such a small girl, Ali had quite the grip. “You came!”
Once they could breathe, they all wished Alicia a happy birthday. Katie tugged nervously on the hem of her robes. They were a little shorter than she would like, but a nice muted brown. Rather than try to find robes revealing enough to meet Ali’s approval, and demure enough not to make Ang shake her head, Katie went for camouflage in the hopes that neither would look too closely. She’d also made sure they were loose enough so that, if necessary, she could run away.
“Greetings all,” Lee Jordan called out, strolling over. “Hey, Bell,” he grinned, giving her a once-over. “You have legs. Who knew?” he asked cheekily.
“Yes, I do,” Katie agreed, blithely. “I’m quite the envy of all my pals down at the primordial ooze.”
“You do look pretty tonight, Katydid,” Ali chirped, smiling at her.
“Katie always looks lovely,” Ang interjected sharply. “She just doesn’t wear robes with slits up to her nostrils, and down to her kneecaps.” A brief silence fell. Katie assumed that the rest of them, like herself, were trying to picture the robes that Ang described. Katie came up with something that looked like an origami porcupine and gave up.
“Hmm,” Ali mused, aloud. “Would you mind if I used your idea, Ang? I need some new Fall designs for the boutique. I could pair it with the thigh-high boots that have chain-links arranged in sexually-suggestive patterns. You know, the ones that you came up with when we had lunch last week.”
“Sounds a little too subtle,” Ang smirked back. “I mean, for you.”
“Actually, I designed my new collection with you in mind,” Alicia replied sweetly. “Chainmail and wimples.” Ang’s eyes narrowed.
“Alcohol and presents!” Katie inserted quickly.
“Yeah, come on, you two,” Fred agreed. “Besides I want to see if that weird cage is big enough to lock a Slytherin in.”
~*~
For a club modeled after a dungeon, it was surprisingly difficult to find a dark and quiet corner. Katie had happily spent a few minutes laughing at the nose-hair trimmer and electric can opener that the club decorator had apparently mistaken for torture devices. After an hour though, Katie was casting longing looks at the sarcophagus in the corner. She’d promised Ali that she’d stay for at least a few hours. She hadn’t said where in the club, exactly. If only she’d brought a book.
The place was packed. Well, except for the area around Ang and Fred, of course. Their exuberant dancing, combined with the fact that spikes and blades festooned the walls made everyone give them a respectful distance. Maybe Katie should go sit cross legged in that area. With her center of gravity that low, it would be hard for even the combined destructive power of Fred and Angelina to thrust her into something hard enough to cause impalement.
Lee Jordan was making his way across the floor to her again, Katie saw. He and George seemed to have some sort of system worked out. Every fifteen minutes, Lee came by to dance with her. Every twenty minutes, George brought her a drink. Depending on how you looked at it, it was condescending or lovely. It was kind of fun having minions though. Katie kept having to fight the urge to demand that one of them juggle.
“Come on, Katie,” Lee said, firmly. “Let’s dance.”
“No, I’m alright, you go ahead,” Katie assured him.
“Katie…”
“Lee, you’ve danced with me like four times. All the other little wallflowers are getting jealous.”
“I want to dance with you. I never see you! I can chat up the gigglers any night.”
“Hmm,” Katie mused, staring over his shoulder. “I didn’t know this club was ‘robes optional’.” Lee’s head whipped around. Katie snickered.
“Idle curiosity,” he protested, with an over-exaggerated hurt look. “But, c’mon. You shouldn’t be standing here by yourself.”
“Lee, I know you always try to look after me but I’m standing in a crowded club! It’s not like I’m going anywhere. What could happen?”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, shrugging. “Do you need a drink?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to put George out of a job,” Katie said wryly. “You could do me a favor though.”
“Name it.”
“Ask a girl that has a chair to dance. I really want to sit down,” Katie pleaded.
He grinned at her, grabbing her arm and towing her through the crowd. A very pretty redhead was just thrilled to dance with him, the girl said breathlessly. She surrendered her stool to Katie without a whimper. Sucker.
Katie perched on her stool and surveyed the dancers. Ang and Fred were maintaining their blast radius. Ali was dancing with a tall, dark-haired guy who looked familiar. Oliver was here, too, with a striking blonde wrapped around him. Young wizardry was out in full force tonight. Look at all the pretty people. Whee.
“And what are you up to?” A tall, lanky guy was grinning down at her. Katie looked at the ale in her hand, and out at the people dancing. Master of the obvious, this one.
“I’m wailing for my demon lover,” Katie replied, sweetly. Confusion flooded his face. He quickly knocked back the rest of his drink.
“Ah, righ’. I need a refill. If you’ll excuse me…” He pushed his way towards the bar. Katie snickered.
The music was boring itself into her skull, and the heat was oppressive. Was it wrong that she had much more fun being yelled at and knocked off her broom? Only the fact that it was Ali’s birthday kept her from ducking out early and meeting Marcus at the Disconsolate Grouse, as he’d requested, well, ordered her to do. Imperious prat.
She would have gone, though. If for no other reason, because the Falcons had done a recent tour of the Continent, and Marcus had been thrown out of at least half the games for throwing people off their brooms, gouging, and in one memorable instance ‘singing in an unsportsmanlike manner’. That sounded like a story worth hearing. Life in the big leagues, she thought ruefully.
“Dance with me,” a voice said behind her, in a husky brogue. Katie spun around to see Oliver Wood. He took her stunned expression for rejection apparently, because he grabbed her arm and looked at her beseechingly. “I’ll give you a galleon.”
“What are you talking about, Oliver?” Katie laughed.
“Just dance with me, please,” he wheedled. “I want to hold an intelligent conversation.” Katie bit back her reply. She liked Oliver, she really did, but he once started a Potions essay with the words ‘Cinnespice is used in Dreamless Draughts, poison antidotes and by my mother when she makes teacakes. The fancy ones, like for company.’
“About?” Katie asked, faintly.
“Well…” he paused. “Quidditch, I suppose.” What a shock.
“OK…Puddlemere vs. the Harpies? Chasers vs. Keepers? How aerodynamic is your hair?”
“Anything is fine,” Oliver assured her. “No one else will talk Quidditch with me,” he said, forlornly, as they moved onto the dance floor. Katie stopped, staring at him in amazement. She quickly surveyed the perimeter. Yes, just as she’d expected, loads of witches and a few wizards gazing raptly at Oliver. After all, he was the boy that had all the Ravenclaws protesting that they found optimizing Quaffle balance an interesting intellectual conundrum.
“I think there are plenty of witches here who would just be ever so delighted to talk Quidditch with you, Wood,” she snickered.
“No,” he said somberly, shaking his head. “They act like they’re talking Quidditch, but that’s not really what they’re talking about.”
“No?”
“No. The first giveaway is the way they say broomstick. Dead lascivious. Then somehow they all call their, er, nether regions, the pitch. They must learn it at the broom bunny academy. It drives me mad too, because it doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t it be ‘the hoop’? But then the other part wouldn’t be broomstick, I guess, but Quaffle. It makes no bloody sense for it to be the pitch, though. First off, I don’t go jamming my broomstick into it like it’s a pogo stick. Second of all, the pitch is about a million times bigger than my broomstick, which makes it not so much inaccurate as bleeding terrifying.” Oliver voice had been rising, drawing even more glances, as he gesticulated wildly. His cheeks had turned a lovely light pink.
“So, it’s not the eroticism but the inaccuracy that gets to you?” Katie asked laughing. “Let me try. Hmm…How about ‘Why don’t you come over to my pitch? I’d really love to see you working my hoops. I’d be more than happy to let my snitch loose as well. Make sure you bring your lovely self and your mighty steed…of stick.’ Oh! Then they could purr ‘Mr. Wood.’”
“Katie!” Oliver was turning a deeper rose color now...
“Bludgers would clearly mean breasts, and we’ve already discussed the snitch…I think we’ll have to go with quaffle for penis, although it does conjure up unpleasantly…doughy images.”
“Katie!” Moving towards fuschia…
“Broomstick and snitch is a little more abstract but I think it works…Bat and bludger lacks couth. Besides, we’ve already iconized bludger.”
“I didn’t understand half of that but what I did understand was appalling,” Oliver told her firmly. “However, it’s not just what they say, though. They’re grabby.”
“Grabby?” Katie laughed.
“Yes! In case I dinna understand that when they say ‘broomstick’ or ‘score’ or ‘Porskoff ploy’, they really mean ‘shag me rotten’, they gesture, er, vehemently.” Katie continued to snicker. “It’s not funny, Bell! The last one was so bad I had to execute a ‘Starfish and Stick’ to get away from her. Quit laughing. It was terrifying.”
“Come now, Oliver. Remember the words of the poets: ‘Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such.’”
“Can we talk about Quidditch now?” he asked, plaintively.
“Weren’t we?” Katie asked, innocently.
“Be serious,” he pleaded. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve heard rumours that you’re consorting with evil companions.”
Katie froze. He knew? Did everyone know? Was Marcus running his mouth? He wouldn’t…Well, there wasn’t anything to run his mouth about really. Then reality reasserted itself. Why would Marcus brag about her? She really needed to get over herself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Katie replied curtly.
“You tried out for the Harpies?” Oliver said, smiling tentatively. Oh. “Competitors of the One True Quidditch Team, Puddlemere United?” The way Oliver said it, you could hear the capitals.
“Yeah,” Katie shrugged. “I didn’t do very well, but I wasn’t expecting much.” She forced a bright smile on her face. “So tell me about that game with Ballycastle! How did Gimlinson get his head wedged in that hoop?”
“He flew into it, head-first, very fast,” Oliver replied blankly. “I heard you did well at the try-outs. You got an offer?”
“Oh, just with their fourth-tier team,” Katie said. “So, the hoops are spelled to be magic-resistant. How did they get him out?”
“Puffapod oil and pushing really hard,” Oliver replied, briskly. “Fourth-tier is quite an accomplishment, Katie. You should be proud. Think of all the people who never get an invite.” Yeah, says Oliver Wood, mainstay of the Reserves his first year out of Hogwarts, Katie thought sourly.
“Yeah, I was pleased,” Katie lied. Same old Oliver. Nothing could divert him short of a wand up his nose.
“I put in a good word for you, you know,” he said, grinning.
“What?”
“One of the Harpies’ assistant coaches called to ask me about you, when he saw that you played under me at Hogwarts. He said you flew really well, and that he and the other assistant were impressed. Did Angelina practice with you?”
“Yeah,” Katie said, casually. Twice, she amended silently. The assistant coaches liked her? That was good news. She’d owl Marcus tonight. Given his allergy to Oliver, maybe she should say that she heard it from Ang.
“So, I told him that you were hard-working, easy to get along with, and loyal,” he informed her.
“Whoo! I’m a Hufflepuff...or a dachshund.”
“Those are important things to be in pro Quidditch,” he told her seriously. “You need to be a team player, and you are. You never…well, you complained less than the others at any rate.”
“Well, you were a very fine Captain,” she told him seriously. He smiled. “Not until tonight did I realize you were such a lyrical storyteller, however.”
“Shut it, Bell.”
“No, really. I think you should sub in for Lee on WWN’s late night Quidditch report. ‘In the Bigonville/Vrasta game tonight, Rousseau caught the snitch by flying very fast. Here at home, Falmouth beat the Cannons by scoring more goals than their opponents.’”
“…and because Marcus Flint cheated, no doubt,” Oliver said, sourly. Marcus never bothered cheating against teams that the Falcons could beat easily. He saved it up for opponents like Puddlemere. Katie decided not to share.
“So…how does it feel to be leading the league in save percentage?”
“Not bad,” Oliver said, grinning.
They talked Quidditch for a while. Listening to Oliver relive games, Katie could now understand why the Gryffindor plays had been so conservative when Oliver was Captain. As a Keeper, the closer the action was to his hoops, the more important it was. A nice sidehand toss from a Chaser close in to the hoops held more interest than a Poynter swerve, mid-pitch. That focus helped make him a great Keeper, Katie realized. As an overall strategist, not so much.
Still, it was kind of fun talking to Oliver. She was enjoying challenging his comments in a way she wouldn’t have at Hogwarts. Learning how one of the best Keepers in the league thought could only benefit a Chaser as well. Besides, she might as well keep dancing. Someone had taken her chair.
“Would you like to come to the next set of Puddlemere tryouts?” Oliver asked casually. Katie froze for a second, before resuming her mechanical side-to-side shuffling.
“What?”
“I could get you an invite. We’re really not scouting Chasers heavily right now, but word will get out to the other teams.”
Another team showing interest might be helpful, Katie thought, excitedly. Marcus was always going on about sweep and buzz.
“Might force the Harpies to take a closer look,” Oliver continued.
It might do that, maybe getting her a step closer to the Reserves. Maybe their hard work would pay off.
Thanks to Oliver.
“That’s really nice of you, Oliver,” Katie heard herself saying, “but I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, a little puzzled.
“Yeah,” she said, weakly. “I just…I just really need to do this on my own.” She’d think about this later, she promised herself.
“Well, if you change your mind…” Oliver was looking at her very carefully.
“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling weakly. “Maybe we should go find the others. I’m sure Ali’s dying to open her presents, and we want to be close enough to see but not too close when she opens her gifts from the twins.” He nodded.
Katie walked beside him, toward the booths where the others were gathering, trying to sort out her swirling emotions. Fear was the only one she recognized.
~*~
Oliver had gotten Alicia earrings.
So had Reginald Bradley, Daniella Tourneau, and a few people Katie didn’t recognize. Ang had gotten her personal alarm charms, a stunning-spelled cloak, and some of the new biting locks from Magisecure. And earrings.
The twins, Katie was certain, had not gotten Ali earrings. However, no one got to see what they did get her, thanks to the actions of an unusually perspicacious bouncer who recognized the twins and insisted Ali wait until leaving his club to open those gifts.
“I got her earrings, too,” Desiderata Holcomb whispered to Katie. “How many earrings can one witch need?”
“It’s OK,” Katie assured her, blithely. “I got her another set of ears.” Desiderata laughed nervously.
It was a bit anticlimactic when Ali opened up Katie’s actual presents-a subscription to the Enchanted Chocolates of the Month club, and a book entitled ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do: A Collection of Quotations from Outspoken and Outrageous Witches Throughout History.’ Katie fully expected some quotes from Alicia to make it into the next edition.
Ali gave her a big hug and wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, before scampering back to her seat. Katie checked the time. No one would miss her if she left now. She could see if Marcus was home. Of course, this would also mean seeing if Marcus wasn’t home. Kind of like that ‘Ineffable Cauldron’ principle that Snape talked about in Advanced Potions: Until you took the lid off, collapsing the potential potion states, the potion could be perfect, flawed or off shagging some tart from a precision flying squad. Katie thought she’d have another drink.
“You look much better, today,” Angelina slid across the banquette to sit next to her.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Katie sassed. “I have legs.” Ang rolled her eyes.
“No, better than last week, after the Harpies tryouts. I was worried about you.”
“Was that what the tea, and the blankets and all the shouting was about?” Katie asked, sweetly. Ang elbowed her in the ribs.
Ang worried more actively than anyone Katie had ever met. If Ang had lost a lover in the Giant Uprising of 1863, she would be ripping up his clothes to make bandages for the others who were injured before the body was cold. If Ang saw tearstains on a friends cheeks when she dropped by their fireplace, she damn well came over and aggressively comforted. Well, after pounding on the door, flying over the roof and breaking in through said tearstained friends balcony. Katie had returned home from her dinner with Marcus, planning to stay in bed until she summoned enough strength to self-obliviate or she turned into someone else. A few minutes with Ang, and Katie was drawing up a list of things she needed for mediwizardry school. A few more minutes with Ang, and death was starting to hold a quiet attraction.
“Did everything look better in the morning?” Ang persisted.
It had actually. At 10:30 Ang had left, stressing that Katie needed to focus on the future. Katie hadn’t. She’d retreated into the past, searching for a Katie who wouldn’t care much that she’d never have a Quidditch career, and even less that she’d never had Marcus at all. It was an heartbreakingly small window in which to work. By 11:00, even those memories had become too painful. Through them, she’d managed to form a plan somehow though: She had been a granddaughter, hanging firmly onto her grandfather’s hand through countless forays into the Muggle world, shyly relishing in his delight at the magic she could show him, loved. She would be a mediwitch, trained at the foremost academy of mediwizardry, respected. That should be enough for anyone to rebuild a present around. She would be OK. She had stopped crying then, and sat curled, shaking, in the old tatty recliner.
At 12:15, there was a fierce rapping at the window. Marcus’ behemoth of an owl was scowling in at her, a seventeen page diatribe clutched in its talons. Marcus must have been writing it since she’d left him; it was half manifesto on how to resurrect her Quidditch career, half snarling accusations. The quill had ripped through the parchment in several places, making parts of it impossible to read. The overall meaning was clear, though. They would continue to practice every day, he had insisted. They would be finishing what they had started. This would not be over. The tears had re-started, the pain had come flooding back, and, with it, incredible relief.
Ang was right. It had all seemed much better in the morning.
“Yeah, it did,” Katie smiled at her.
“Good. I’m so glad that you’re OK.,” Ang replied, pulling Katie into a warm hug. Ang tensed after a second, as a thought seemed to strike her. “Where’s Ali?” she asked, scanning the club. Katie had to hide a smile.
“Maybe she’s in the catacombs,” Lee replied, yawning.
“Excuse me?” Ang and Katie asked together.
“The catacombs,” Lee repeated. “A little personal-use spelled dungeon they have in this club. For a galleon, you and a friend can be alone. Cheaper than a room at the Leaky, and far more atmospheric.”
“Atmospheric as in roses and candlelight?” Ang asked, incredulously.
“More as in whips and chains,” Lee corrected.
“Why would there be whips in the catacombs?” Katie mused. Everyone stared at her, so she hurriedly explained. “I mean, they’re graveyards right? So why would you need whips? Flogging the dead seems unproductive. And tiring… I suppose it would save time and effort if you were going to flog someone to death. They’d already be at their gravesite when they…er, expired. Though it’s pretty gauche of them to make someone pay a cover charge for their own untimely demise. Plus it cuts down on repeat business…” There was a pause. “Why are you all staring at me like that?” Katie asked. “It’s wasn’t my business plan.”
Angelina tossed back the remainder of her electric green cocktail in one gulp. “Come on, Fred,” she said, standing and stretching. “Let’s go check it out.”
“What?” Fred asked, disbelieving.
“The catacombs. The drink here is frankly piss, and we’ve danced for hours. No power on earth could stop Ali from making a total scandal of herself at this point. Besides,” she said grinning, pulling Fred to his feet, “I want to spend some time with my man.”
“Abandoning your role as Katie’s chastity belt, then?” George asked sourly.
“There’s a lovely image,” Lee grinned, winking at Katie.
“Oh, I have faith in Katie,” Ang asserted. “I know that the rest of her evening will be spent coming up with cost-benefit ratio analyses for torture chambers, or writing instruction manuals on how to easily make instruments of pain out of an old swingset…That should scare off those who aren’t the right sort. Right, Katydid?” Ang asked, winking.
Marcus doesn’t scare.
Katie flushed at the thought, and nodded, smiling.
“We should be going,” Fred chimed in. “My woman craves my harsh discipline and uncontrollable lusts.”
“I have no idea where you got the idea that I would be the one all bound and helpless, Weasley,” Ang commented blithely as she strode away. “Come along.”
Fred stood, stunned, for a second before shrugging, a wide grin spreading across his face as he followed Ang through the crowd.
“Someone say something, quick,” George pleaded. “Let’s not dwell.”
“Again, we’re confronted with a logistical problem,” Katie mused. “Where in a crypt will you tie someone up?” Lee snickered as she continued. “Maybe that’s why there are all those little statues of angels and infants in cemetaries--They’re like little tiny hitching posts. Of course, it would have to be BYOR-Bring your own rope. Unless you used the aforementioned incongruous crypt-whips for that purpose….”
“Drink,” George said, words muffled by the table that he was slumped over. “I need strong drink.”
Lee snorted in disgust, and headed over to the bar. Katie grinned as Lee wended his way through the crowds by a route that looked completely random until you noticed he managed to casually brush against the most beautiful women in the club, and enter at least the peripheral vision of all the others. Katie was going to point this out to George when she noted his head was still on the table.
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re actually not that drunk.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
Katie snickered and went back to watching the dancers. It was funny, really. All that time and money and effort expended on making cheekbones look a little bit higher, or legs longer. Time spent rehearsing in order to pretend they were casually clever, while in fact the three lines that they had come up with represented the better part of three months intellectual effort. For what? To have their knickers peeled off by some bloke who might know either their favorite Quidditch team or the last book they read but not both? Vague, that is what it was. Making themselves sexually appealing and intellectually inoffensive to as many men as possible. Being a blurred version of some guy’s dark princess and slinking into bed with him while it was still a possibility that he was the shining knight.
Whatever the thing between Marcus and her was, at least it wasn’t about demographics.
Not that she knew really what it was about. Or what he wanted it to be about. Or for that matter, what she wanted it to be about. Apparently, she didn’t know much.
At the very least, she was sure that she was his only Quidditch pupil/sparring partner/irritant. For one thing, there just wasn’t enough time left over after all their sessions. For another, if he yelled at someone else like he yelled at her, he’d have laryngitis.
It probably meant that he cared about her, at least a little.
Or maybe not.
No, it did, she told herself. He spent a huge amount of time with her. They didn’t always talk about Quidditch. He really had wanted her to make the Harpies. Sometimes he laughed at her jokes and sometimes he got really angry at them. He paid attention.
He couldn’t have an ulterior motive. She didn’t have any money or power. The only thing she had was a broomstick and some friends. Katie supposed that it was possible that he was helping her in order to get in the good graces of one of her friends, but there was no reason for Marcus to care what any of her friends thought. Marcus didn’t care what anyone thought. There wasn’t anything he could gain, as far as Katie could see, by being nic-, well, by spending time with her.
It must be her voluptuous beauty then, a voice in her head whispered snidely. Clearly, the man who could have any witch he desired wanted her, and chose to go about this by spending the entire summer with her and never touching her.
Only because she told him not too, Katie told herself firmly. That was why.
Oh, he was just being obedient, the voice sneered. It was all part of Marcus’ master plan to have little Katie Bell. In addition to his other plan of not being able to come up with a single nice thing to say to her when she had dribbled her emotions all over his shirtfront. It seems so obvious now, the voice continued snidely.
She wasn’t going to do this. Marcus did care about her. He did. It might not be in a romantic way, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
Liar.
They were friends, Katie thought fiercely. If it was never anything more than that, it would be OK. She’d thought it was over before, and he hadn’t let it be. He owled her everyday. She was allowed to hope.
You owl him back everyday, the voice chided, only sometimes you put it off for a bit, don’t you? Making sure he’s paying attention by playing a bit hard-to-get?
Katie wondered how the developmental spellcrafting for magilobotomies was coming along. There were parts of her brain that she would really like to shut up.
She wasn’t going to think about it any more. Katie hadn’t seen her friends in ages. She should be enjoying this time with them.
Ali was on the dance floor, the sway of her hips apparently hypnotizing her partner, the Seeker for Pride of Portree. It was official, Katie decided, watching Ali’s liquid movements. The girl did not have a spine.
Katie glanced over at George. If he was staring wistfully at Ali, Katie would have to distract him. Maybe dance with him or enchant his boxer shorts to burst into flame.
He wasn’t brooding. He was staring at Katie, with a peculiar expression on his face. Furrowed brow, determined set to his jaw. He looked a little nauseous.
Blast.
”You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” Katie asked, pained.
He looked stunned for half a second, but recovered quickly. After a brief transition period of looking like a stuffed frog, he grinned at her. Katie relaxed.
“Oh, that’s very nice, Bell. Thank you very much. Think a bit much of yourself, then?” he grinned at her, tips of his ears turning red.
“Sorry…It’s just this look you get, like you’re steeling yourself for a particularly unpleasant task.” She elbowed him.
“It’s not unpleasant,” George protested. “Well, not extremely so at any rate..”
“Prat.”
“I’m serious. For only a few gallons, I would even consider sticking my hand down your pants.”
“Oh, yes. I can just hear you whispering in my ear: ‘Oh, Katie…you’re so very…kind of tall, and such lovely…hold on, it’s dark in here,…blonde hair? The way your sexuality isn’t overt…or actually even discernable makes me shiver.’”
“There’s nothing wrong with not being a slag,” George muttered, with a dark look over at Ali and her companion. Ah yes, what was always behind George’s half-hearted, intermittent advances. Katie, it’s so wonderful how you’re Alicia’s complete opposite.
“Ali’s not a slag,” Katie replied firmly.
“Loyalty becomes you, Bell,” George muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Think of it this way,” Katie replied, sweetly. “If she was a slag, she’d sleep with you, wouldn’t she?”
“With Lockhart in St. Mungo’s dancing with the Mooncalves, you should take over his career as inspirational speaker,” George said sourly.
“Good idea,” Katie smirked. “I’ll begin right now. Weasley, you pathetic loser…”
“I once walked in on the man licking his own reflection,” George mused, idly. “That was still more inspiring than you.”
“Your brother is in the catacombs right now with a beautiful witch…”
“Being made to bark like a crup,” George returned sourly.
“Lee’s tongue has been in other people’s mouths more than his own this evening.”
“Oliver has hidden under a table twice this evening to avoid sexually aggressive witches. Why don’t you go explain to him what a loser he is? Thousands would agree.”
“You are a successful businessman. You’re a good Quidditch player. There’s really no excuse for you to be such a eunuch,” Katie returned, blithely.
“You’re sitting here with me,” George retorted. “I’ve kissed someone since I last kissed you. Bet you can’t say the same.”
Standing in a steamy shower room, deluded enough to try to hear him breathe over the rushing water. Warm breath against her spine as she fought to stay standing on the pitch. Pushed up against the wall at Hogwarts, despairing and cold, yet still feeling her body respond to him. Sprawled out on her bed, his body heavy above hers as she shivered.
Had George kissed her after that? She couldn’t even remember.
“You’re still going to the wedding with me, right?” George asked. “Because while the rest of our worthless siblings will be off snogging their dates, Charlie and I will need your help keeping a) Mom from portkeying Fleur to Elba, b) Ginny from getting in fistfights with any of the other bridesmaids and c) Dad from doing unintentional yet irreparable harm to anyone with his new Muggle lawnmower. Bill is counting on us.”
“I’ll be there. Harry will too though, which means You-Know-Who will probably apparate into the boulliabaise.”
“True,” George snorted. “Maybe we should have invited Percy.”
“Don’t you have girls to snog?”
“Fine, I’m leaving,” George muttered. “As you’re supposed to be so clever, what should I say to make a witch think I’m sophisticated, clever and dead sexy?”
“How about ‘knock knock’?”
“Oh, shut it, Bell.”
~*~